Facing Death
/When my father died, I stood in the hallway.
After a summer of ups and downs, it was clear that this would be his last night. Friends escorted my mother down the wall to wait, and I stood outside as the doctors and nurses worked frantically in the room to save him. Watching his vital signs on a screen by the nurses’ station, and listening to the chorus of beeps and buzzers, I stood waiting until the one important line on the screen went flat before heading down the hallway to tell my mother.
Recently, I found myself in a hauntingly familiar situation. A beloved friend and valued mentor was in the hospital in a coma and not likely to survive. Although there was nothing I could do, I traveled to Washington to see him. The hallway smells and sounds were the same, but, when I arrived at the nurses’ station, I did not stop. I entered his room.
He was hardly recognizable, and it took time for me to accept the man lying in the bed was my friend. I shared with him my utter love for him, appreciation for all the experiences we shared, then gave him permission to go. Reaching over the metal railing on his bead, I placed my hand on his head and said an impromptu version of Last Rites, then kissed him goodbye.
“You’ve been through this before,” my friend’s wife said softly when she arrived. It was true. The sounds and smells were identical, as was the overwhelming sadness. There was one difference, though. This time I wasn’t standing out in the hallway; I was in the room. I wasn’t watching a screen; I was touching and kissing a friend.
I grew up avoiding death, and practically every other type of pain. Life was all white picket fences, symmetrically planted flowers, and birds singing harmonious melodies. It was a peaceful way to grow up, but it wasn’t real. When the other side of life showed up, I usually ran or crawled into places of refuge. In other words, I always stood at a distance, in the various hallways, to avoid direct contact with the pain of life.
This time, I entered the room. With knees quaking, and heart beating at a suffocating rate, I crossed the threshold. I’m beginning to realize it’s inside that real life is found, where love is expressed in all its imperfections, and where the presence of the one who gave us life in the first place is most keenly felt.
Driving home, I vowed to remember this lesson the next time I need to enter a room . . . or take an unwanted phone call, open an ominous windowed envelop, have a difficult conversation, or make a paralyzing decision. I wasn’t alone in the hospital room, nor will I be alone in any other room.